


Strawbear

by itsclppingbitch



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, M/M, based off of a song by Keaton Henson, i'm not even sorry okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2603702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsclppingbitch/pseuds/itsclppingbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt stopped believing in love on a day right at the cusp of spring, when flowers started budding from the half-thawed ground. </p>
<p>Marco Bodt stopped believing in love in a cold, white room that smelled like chemicals and hopelessness. </p>
<p>Marco Bodt stopped believing in love because of two words that had sucked the air right out of his lungs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 10am, Gare du Nord

Marco Bodt stopped believing in love on a day right at the cusp of spring, when flowers started budding from the half-thawed ground. 

Marco Bodt stopped believing in love in a cold, white room that smelled like chemicals and hopelessness. 

Marco Bodt stopped believing in love because of two words that had sucked the air right out of his lungs. 

Those two words had left him numb and shivering as he'd walked out of the building, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. It wasn't cold out, but that didn't seem to matter much to the goosebumps on his skin. Marco let out a slow breath and kept walking, heading towards the closest coffee shop. Tea would help. Tea always helped. He quietly ordered a cup and sat down with it in the corner, his knees pulled into his chest as he sipped at his tea, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. 

He almost didn't notice the man sitting at the table across from him, who kept looking up at him and then back at a notepad, sketching frantically. Marco's eyes twitched down to the notepad, a smile quirking at his lips. It was too far away for him to see, but he found it flattering that somebody would want to draw him. His eyes found the other's when he looked up again and he watched with a smile as red immediately spread up his neck and across his cheeks. He hadn't expected to be caught, then. 

Marco gave a tentative wave at him, hoping he'd take it as a sign to continue, and looked the other way to let him finish. 

Ten minutes later and a paper was being thrust into his lap before the man practically ran out the door, his face still bright red. Marco smiled and picked it up, looking over the drawing. It was good. Very good, actually. And scribbled at the bottom was a note. 

I like your fucking freckles. Jean. 

Under that was a phone number. 

Marco stared at it with wide eyes, his blood running cold. Yesterday he would have had his phone out already. Yesterday he would have been ecstatic. But today wasn't yesterday. He couldn't text him. He couldn't do that to the poor man. He sighed and stood, carefully tucking the drawing into his bag and heading back home. He took the drawing back out then, his eyes on the phone number. He wouldn't do it. Texting him would just make him involved. And that was the last thing Marco wanted to do at this point. 

He touched the corner of the page gently, looking it over once more before setting it on his desk, off to the side where it wouldn't be stained or damaged. He'd have to get a frame for it tomorrow. 

 

He went to the crafts store the next morning to pick out a frame for the sketch. He spent far too long looking them over, trying to find the perfect one. When he'd finally selected it, he clutched it close to his chest and turned, heading back towards the front of the store. As he rounded the corner, he slammed into someone, both men falling backwards, an armful of paints flying everywhere. 

“I'm so sorry,” Marco immediately gasped, setting the frame down and sitting up to start picking up the paints. But he froze as their eyes met. 

“Oh,” he whispered. “You're the artist from yesterday. Jean.” 

Jean blushed furiously and started to hastily pick up his paints. “Sorry about that. I went out on a limb.   
Should have known you were dating someone.” 

Marco blinked at him. “I'm not dating anyone. But I don't text strangers.” 

That made sense. Plenty of people didn't text strangers that gave out there numbers. It sounded logical to him.

“Oh. Well. Let me take you to dinner or something. So we, uh, won't be strangers.” 

Marco deflated a little and bit his lip. 

“You could be an axe murderer.” 

“I'll meet you in broad daylight. At that coffee shop. I'll buy you a tea. You look like you could use it.” 

Marco looked him over and finally gave a small nod. “One tea. But.. this isn't a date. Please know that now.” 

Jean blushed and quickly shook his head. “Of course not. You just look like you could use a fucking pick-me-up as all.”

Marco gave him a thin smile. “I'll meet you over there at four, okay?” he said. 

Jean gave a quick nod and Marco stood, walking off with his frame. He left the artist flat 

 

Marco walked back home, immediately putting the sketch in the frame and hanging it up. Once he was satisfied with it's placement, he went off for a shower. He dressed simply, not bothering to try to impress Jean. He'd meant what he'd said. It wasn't a date. Once he was dressed, he started the long walk back the coffee shop. 

He spotted Jean the moment he walked in. He didn't let his gaze linger too long on the way his sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong muscles underneath. This wasn't a date. He smiled as Jean sprung up too fast when he spotted him, red creeping up his neck. “Hi,” he said quickly. “I... Hi.” 

“Hello,” Marco replied, making an effort to not look amused. 

“What kind of tea do you want?” 

“Peppermint, I think.” 

Jean ordered their drinks and sat down, Marco following and doing the same.   
It was awkward at first. They didn't know each other and stumbled over conversation. 

And then they didn't. They started to click. The conversation started to fit together and Marco found himself thinking that if things were different, this absolutely would have been a date. Jean was everything Marco wanted. Had wanted. He was everything he couldn't have anymore. 

When it came time to part, Marco started to walk off, but Jean stopped him. “Do you not have a car?” 

Marco shook his head. 

“Let me give you a ride home, then. It's cold out. You shouldn't have to walk in that.” 

He shook his head at first, but a stern look from Jean and he relented. “Fine, fine. It's about an hour's walk anyway. This'll save me some time. Thank you.” 

Jean stared at him. “An hour!? You didn't have to meet me here, then! Or I could have picked you up!” 

Marco laughed. “It's fine. I don't mind. I like walking, anyway. It's quiet and it gives me time to think.” 

He got into Jean's beat-up old car and smiled, humming quietly along with the radio and Jean drove him home. He listened as Jean told him about how he'd disappointed his parents by pursuing a degree in art, how they thought it was worthless. 

“But you're good. It was the right fit for you. Don't ever stop drawing, Jean. I mean that. You have a talent.” 

Jean blushed and turned to look at him as he slowed for a red light. Marco smiled and Jean returned it. And then he closed the distance between them, his lips pressing gently against Marco's. 

Marco blinked in surprise, recoiling a moment later. “No,” he whispered, starting to tremble. “No, I told you this wasn't a date. Unlock the door.” 

Jean stared, bewildered. 

“Unlock it!” 

He obliged, reaching out to touch his hand and apologize. Marco jerked away, grabbing his bag and getting out. He slammed the door behind him, walking away and leaving Jean at the red light, his apology still half-formed on his lips.


	2. Give Me Glimmers of Hope

“Wait!” Marco heard Jean calling for him, the car crawling along beside him as he walked. “Wait, Marco, I'm sorry. I fucked up. I know this wasn't a date. I... fuck. Fuck, I'm sorry. Just let me fucking take you home. You're going to get mugged or something.”  
Marco let out a bitter laugh. 

“It doesn't matter, Jean. Just leave me alone.”

Jean sighed and put his emergency lights on, following alongside him. He didn't try to speak to him again, just kept close to make sure he got home alright. 

Marco steadily ignored him, hunched over against the cold with his arms around his waist. Stupid, stupid Marco. He shouldn't have agreed to go out with Jean. He should have known better. The plan had been to not let anyone get involved. And he'd gone and thrown that one right out the window. He stopped abruptly, the trembling starting to get worse. 

Jean swore and slammed on the breaks, getting out of his car as Marco sank to the ground, hyperventilating. 

“Hey, hey, Marco, I've got you,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around him and pulling his face into his chest. 

Marco tensed up for just a moment before latching onto Jean, shaking in his arms and trying to catch his breath. 

Jean stroked gently through his hair, keeping Marco close. 

“I'm here,” he whispered. “I'm here and I'm going to stay here with you, okay? I'm not going to leave yet. Not until you're okay again. Here, Marco, look at me, look up. There you go.” He put his hands on either side of his face, giving him a soft smile. “Match my breathing, okay? I'm going to breath nice and slow and I want you to try and do the same. Ready?” 

He kept his eyes on Marco's as he inhaled on a count of four, held it, then exhaled on a count of four. 

Marco stared at him with wide eyes, continuing to hyperventilate. He couldn't calm down. He couldn't. Jean was asking too much. His life was crumbling around him. But Jean kept up the steady breathing, and Marco, although it took a few minutes, started to calm down, matching his breaths to Jean's. 

“That's it. You've got it, Marco. Much better.” 

Marco reached up, holding tightly to his wrists and squeezing his eyes shut as he continued to breathe. “I-I'm s-so-sorry,” he choked out. 

Jean immediately shushed him. “Don't you dare apologize for that. It's not your fault.”

Marco just sniffled, silent as he clung to Jean. 

The artist eventually stood, helping Marco up carefully and taking him back to his car. “I won't kiss you again. I promise. Just let me take you home. You're in no state to walk the rest of the way.” 

Marco just gave a little nod, curling up in the seat and staring out the window, scrubbing the tears from his cheeks. 

Jean turned his head, staring at the back of his neck, letting his eyes skim down his body. They paused on his neck and bit his lip, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the splatter of freckles there. He let out a soft sigh and turned, starting to drive again. 

“It's not that I didn't want it to be a date,” Marco said slowly, his voice barely audible. “It just can't be one. It's a risk right now.” 

Jean glanced over, curious. “A risk?”

Marco nodded, but didn't offer anymore information. 

Jean pursed his lips. “Well. What if it's note a date? What if we just hang out as bros?” 

Marco shook his head a little. “Why would you even want to hang out with me?”

Jean caught his eye and gave him a cocky grin. “Because I like your fucking freckles.” 

Marco laughed at that, but shook his head again.

“Come on, Marco. You can't deny we get along. Even if we can't date, I'd like to be your friend. Not matter what it is you've got going on that you've deemed a risk, I'm willing to take that risk. I really am.” 

Marco just bit his lip and pointed at a building. “That's mine. Thank you for the ride,” he murmured, getting out as soon as Jean pulled over. “See you later.” 

Jean stared after him, watching him walk up the stairs, his expression falling. But then he realized what Marco had said. Not 'piss off' or 'have a good life.' 'See you later.' Jean grinned triumphantly and drove off, content with that. 

Marco, on the other hand, had curled up in his bathtub, shaking again as he was wracked by guilt. He couldn't let Jean get caught up in this. Jean, who had held him through his panic attack. Jean, who had helped me breathe normally again. The artist that liked him and his freckles. He didn't deserve this. Marco couldn't give him anything. Not his affection, his love, his body. He didn't believe in that anymore. But maybe, just maybe, he could be friends with Jean? It was still risky, sure, but Marco didn't have anyone. No family, a few friends, that was all. Maybe he could afford to let himself get close to one person. For support. 

It was that thought that helped stopped the shaking. That picked him up and pulled his phone out of his pocket. 

_There's a good Italian place near where I work. Maybe we could get lunch tomorrow. ___

His thumb hovered over the send button for just a moment before he pressed it, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Jean's reply came back less than a minute later. _Alright!!!!! ___

Marco laughed at that. _I get my lunch break around three._

 

Three o' clock came far too fast for Marco's liking. He'd sent Jean the address and he was anxiously waiting outside. Jean showed up just after three, paint smudged on his cheek and jaw. 

Marco suppressed a giggle. “Look at you. You're covered in paint.” 

Jean shrugged. “It happens, man. You forget you're covered in it and you go to itch your face or something. Whatever.” 

Marco smiled, eyeing the smears. “Nerd.” 

Jean puffed up, indignant. “I'm not a nerd!” he gasped. “You take that back, Marco!” 

Marco laughed, shaking his head. “You're a paint covered nerd that likes my fucking freckles,” he teased. 

“No, no, don't bring that up! I can't believe I actually wrote that,” Jean groaned, opening the door for Marco. They sat at a table and Jean rolled his eyes. “I just wanted to get your attention.” 

“You certainly did,” Marco replied. 

“Good,” Jean murmured, picking up his menu. He watched Marco over the top of it, unable to keep the stupid grin off his mouth as he watched those long, lean fingers turning the pages of the menu, the way Marco stared at with a quiet intensity. He was captivating. Jean had never felt compelled to draw someone the way he wanted to draw Marco. And he wanted to draw Marco in every conceivable way. He wanted to draw the way he was staring at the menu. That gorgeous smile. He wanted to draw his freckles so he could commit them to memory, to know where every single one was on his body. Marco was a universe, covered with constellations, and Jean wanted to be the astronomer to discover them all. 

Marco looked up, catching him staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jean blushed furiously, burying his face in the menu. “Not looking at you like anything, bro.” 

Marco just snorted, going back to his own. “Alright, nerd.” 

Jean just ducked down a little more, chewing on his own lip and tugging his beanie down a little further on his head, almost as if he was trying to cover his eyes.

Marco just snorted again. “What are you going to get, Jean?” he asked, still looking amused. 

“I think I'm just going to get the lasagna,” Jean mumbled to his menu. 

Marco nodded slowly. “I think I'm just going to get breadsticks.” 

Jean looked up, eyebrows raised. “That's it? That's all you're going to get?”

Marco nodded. “I'm just not very hungry,” he murmured.  
Jean hid behind his menu again, his grin growing wider. Even though he wasn't hungry, he'd still come out to meet him for lunch. Fuck, he was falling hard and fast over this freckled idiot. 

“So what do you do, Marco?” he asked, after they'd ordered. 

“Oh, I own a bookshop. Well, I co-own it with a friend, Erwin. It's really nice, actually. I've never had such a peaceful job before. We get busy, of course. But most of the time, I get to sit down and get lost in somebody else's life and problems for a while. I can be happy for a while.” 

There was another thing Jean wanted to draw. The way Marco talked about books. Jean had never seen someone glow like that just from talking about something they loved. 

“I've actually been reading a children's book recently.. no, don't laugh, Jean, it's good! It's about a man that can read aloud and bring characters out of their books into his world and vice versa.” Marco sighed wistfully. “I wish I could be transported into a fictional world. I wouldn't have to deal with any of these problems. I could be a new person entirely.” 

Jean bit his lip. “Sounds nice,” he mumbled. 

Marco hummed pleasantly and fell silent. 

They sat like that for a few minutes, in comfortable silence. When their food arrived, Jean watched with concern as Marco picked at his breadsticks, not even finishing one full one before pushing the plate off to the side. 

“Eat some more, Marco. You already look like a stick.” 

Marco just smiled and shook his head again. “No, I'm really not hungry. Big breakfast.” 

Jean huffed, finishing off his lasagna. 

Marco checked his watch and sighed. “I have to go back to work soon,” he murmured. 

Jean nodded. “I should probably get back to my pieces. I have to have four done by the end of next week for a show.” 

Marco perked up a bit at that. “Your art is going to be in a show?”

Jean nodded. “Mhm. They're paying me pretty well, too.” He paused. “Would you like to come with me?”

Marco nodded. “I'd like that a lot, actually.” 

Jean beamed. “I'll text you the information,” he said. “I've never had someone want to come with me before.” 

“Well, now you do.” Marco paid the bill and stood, stretching and revealing a few inches of freckled stomach to Jean, who drank the sight in while it lasted. “I'll see you soon,” he said, waving and walking away.  


Jean headed back home, feeling a little dazed. And if he painted constellations on a flesh colored canvas that night, well, nobody had to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Marco's reading is Inkheart. Still one of my favs to this day.


	3. Do Not Love Me Though

They didn't get a chance to meet up again before Jean's art show, though both of them were alright with that. Jean was working almost nonstop on his pieces, trying to get them all finished in time. It had been difficult for him at first, he hadn't had any ideas for his paintings. And then it had hit him. He worked steadily through the week, texting Marco here and there whenever he had the chance. It was never anything very important, just little comments to Marco throughout the day. 

Marco, for his part, made an effort to reply to Jean whenever he texted. He liked Jean far more than he should have, which was dangerous for the other man. Jean, however, refused to listen to his warnings and continued to flirt almost incessantly. Marco like that more than he should have too. 

By the end of the week, Marco was ecstatic to go to the art show. It had been too long since his last one and he was attending this one with a very handsome artist. Not that he cared at all. It wasn't a date. This was the fifth or sixth time he'd had to remind himself that. He and Jean were just friends. They were bros and that was all. But that didn't stop Marco from putting on his best suit and taking the time to make sure his hair looked nice. 

When Jean picked him up that evening, he gaped at Marco for several seconds before managing to shut his jaw and face front again. “You... You look good, Marco.” 

“Thank you, Jean,” Marco replied, cheeks turning a faint pink. “So do you.” 

Jean grinned. “You think so?”

Marco nodded quickly. “You really do.” 

Jean bit his lip, fighting back a blush at Marco's words. “Thank you. I... I hope you like my pieces.” 

Marco rolled his eyes at that. “Jean, I know I'm going to love them. You're a fantastic artist.” 

Jean shrugged a little. “I'm still worried you won't like them,” he murmured, fingers tapping anxiously against the console. Marco looked down at them and swallowed, gently laying his hand over Jean's. “I'm going to love them,” he promised. “Calm down.” 

Jean went quiet, taking a deep breath and relishing the feeling of Marco's fingers on his own. He knew it was only meant to help relax him, but he couldn't help but imagine it as more than that. 

When they arrived, Jean reluctantly pulled his hand out from under Marco's, giving him a small smile. “Thank you,” he murmured. 

“Of course,” Marco replied, getting out of the car and stretching. He let Jean lead him into the building, his eyes wide as he started to take in all the art being presented at the showcase. 

Jean watched him, entranced by the way he studied the art. God, what would he think of Jean's work?

Marco pulled himself away a few minutes later, looking to Jean. 

“Where's yours?” he asked. 

Jean took a deep breath and grabbed his hand, leading him over to his section. 

Marco smiled, looking over the first work. “Jean, this is beautiful,” he murmured. “They're constellations, right? I've never seen them drawn with that color palette before. It's a really interesting take.” He moved onto the next one. More constellations, these done in the same neutral colors, save for a faint pink behind a patch of them. The third painting was more of the same, but no. That wasn't quite right. This one had.. part of an eye in it? Marco's eyes flitted to the final piece and he felt the breath leave his body in a soft whoosh. 

“Jean,” he whispered, one hand coming up to cover his mouth. “Oh, Jean.” Marco looked away from the painting and fixed his gaze on Jean instead. The artist was staring intently at the ground. “Is that really what I look like to you?” He looked back to the painting. It was himself, but unlike the others, it was done in the opposite color palettes, so Marco himself looked like a galaxy. 

Jean gave a little shrug. “You're beautiful, Marco,” he whispered, refusing to look up. 

Marco bit his lip, reaching out and taking Jean's hand. He was breaking his own rules by doing this, but to hell with his rules. He had the right to enjoy the present. “Thank you,” he murmured, pressing close to Jean and resting his head on top of the other's. 

Jean squeezed his fingers gently, a small smile on his mouth. He'd never really believed in an afterlife, but in that moment, he was convinced that he'd found heaven. And his name was Marco Bodt.


	4. This Feels Right and I'm Letting It

Jean went home with Marco that night. Nothing really came of it, not that Jean expected anything to happen. He didn't want to rush something like that. He did, however, strip Marco down to his boxers and lay him out on the bed, gently tracing over his freckles with the tip of his finger. 

He didn't know where to look. On the one had, he wanted to know where every single freckle on Marco's body was. He wanted to memorize the layout so he could paint it all again later. He wanted to look at the trail of goosebumps his finger was leaving behind like a wake on the other's skin. He wanted to watch Marco's face, take in the way his lips parted and his eyes half-closed at the sensation. 

He didn't keep it up for long, however. There were dark circles under the older man's eyes and Jean didn't want to keep him up. So he cuddled up close, tangling their legs together and closing his eyes, drifting off. Marco did the same, his forehead pressed against Jean's. 

He woke up the next morning on Jean's chest, his ear over the other's heart. It was peaceful, lying there in early morning light, listening to somebody else's heart beat. He hadn't meant for it to turn out this way. He really hadn't. He'd meant to protect the beautiful artist from himself. But somehow, Jean had wormed his way into his heart regardless. Marco wasn't sure that he wanted to let him go at this point. 

He let out a quiet sigh. He supposed it didn't matter. Jean would find out the truth sooner or later and would end up leaving him.   
The soft breath against his chest roused Jean and he blinked awake slowly, yawning. “Mmmm. Morning, Marco,” he whispered, running a hand through his hair. Marco hummed and leaned into the touch. “Morning, Jean.” They lapsed into a comfortable silence, Jean playing with Marco's hair and Marco tracing patterns onto Jean's stomach. 

They stayed like that for a long while, murmuring back and forth to each other and getting acquainted with each other's bodies. Jean found a spot just above Marco's hip that tickled Marco when he kissed it. Marco discovered that Jean practically purred when his hair was stroked. 

It was nearly eleven when Marco pulled away and sat up, chuckling at the whine Jean let out in response. “Needy,” he teased, stroking his cheek. A strange look crossed his face after a moment and he excused himself, getting out of the bed and dashing for the bathroom. 

The sound of pained retching came a few moments later. 

Jean scrambled out of the bed, nearly tripping over himself as he did. “Marco?” he called, trying the door. Locked. “Marco, what's wrong?” More retching, followed by short pants, like he couldn't catch his breath. “Let me in, starshine, I want to help.” 

Marco unlocked the door a few minutes later and Jean immediately wrapped an arm around him.   
“Marco,” he whispered, pushing the hair back from his face. He frowned. Marco was pale and sweating, the dark bags even more prominent under his eyes. His lips looked dry. So did his mouth. “What's wrong?” he whispered, frowning when Marco curled up against him and trembled. “Shhh. I've got you. It'll be okay, whatever it is.” 

Marco shook his head a little, tightening his grip on Jean. “N-No, it w-won't,” he choked out. 

“Please tell me what's going on,” Jean whispered, a little desperate. “I want to help however I can.” 

Marco shook his head again. “N-Nothing. Pr-probably just th-the flu.” 

Jean knew better than that, but he didn't push it, opting to stroke through his hair and hold him close, rocking him a bit. “Marco,” he said eventually. “Come get some water with me, hmm?” 

“I'm not thirsty,” he whispered. 

“You need to drink. You just threw up. You need to eat, too.” 

“I don't need it,” Marco insisted, touching his cheek. 

Jean stood, lifting Marco with him. “You do. Don't argue with me. You're going to have a little something, Marco.” 

He ended up making chicken noodle soup and put it in two bowls, pushing one in front of Marco with a glass of water. He watched the man sip listlessly at both, eating just barely half before pushing it away. “No more,” he whispered. 

Jean sighed. “Fine,” he agreed reluctantly. “That's fine.” He didn't know what was wrong with Marco. And he certainly didn't know why he was hiding it from him. But until Marco decided to share that information with him, Jean was going to do his damnedest to keep him as healthy as possible.


	5. In The Morning

It started out with Jean's toothbrush. That was the first thing that made it's way into Marco's apartment. He'd gone home to grab it after the second night he'd spent at Marco's. He hated waking up with that fuzzy feeling in his mouth and so it had found it's way into the bathroom. The next thing was his art supplies. That was his livelihood and he had to continue working. Besides, Marco's apartment had way better lighting than his own. Then came his pillow and a bag of clothes. Marco had laughed when he'd seen the pillow, poking Jean's stomach and asking him why he'd brought it when he always ended up using Marco's chest. 

It took a week for him to move the majority of his belongings into Marco's.

It took a far shorter period of time for him to forget what it was like falling asleep alone. 

He forgot a lot of things in that first week. He forgot how to eat without his feet in Marco's lap. He forgot how to wash the paint off of his face on his own. He forgot what it was like to not sit in someone's lap when he was playing video games. He forgot how to be lonely. 

The first week of Marco was one of the best weeks of his life. It was also one of the most anxious. Something was terribly wrong with his Marco and Jean didn't know how to fix it. He didn't eat much, he was constantly throwing up, he looked jaundiced most of the time. Jean was afraid. 

Nine days after moving in with Marco, Jean was interrupted from his painting by the sounds of retching. He swore and set his brush to the side, running to the bathroom. The door was, for once, unlocked. He slipped inside, ignoring his lover's hand waving him away, and dropped to his knees beside him. 

“Starshine,” he whispered, stroking his hair back from his sweaty face. “It's okay. Relax. Take deep breaths.” He winced as Marco pulled himself up and started retching again. But this time, Jean caught a glimpse of what was coming out of his mouth. 

Jean was an artist. A painter. On principle, he loved all colors. Even the most mundane ones could create something beautiful. But in that moment, Jean had never hated the color red as much as he did then. 

“M-Marco,” he whispered, continuing to stroke the strands of his hair back from his face, though now he could barely manage it the way his fingers were shaking. 

Marco sat up after a few minutes, spitting and immediately flushing the toilet. There were strands of deep crimson staining his lips. 

Jean looked away. “Marco.” 

“No.” 

“Marco, please.” 

“No! It's nothing!”

Jean looked back towards him, reaching up and wiping the blood off of his lip with his thumb. “I'm afraid,” he whispered, wiping it off on his shirt. “You've become so important to me so quickly. You inspire me. You're my muse. I'm not really sure I could fall asleep without your body heat beside me, now. And you're... you're hurting, Marco. You're hurting and you won't tell me what's wrong so I can help. I just want to help! I want to take all of this pain away from you, Marco! I know I can't do that, but the least I can do is ease it a little. Tell me what's going on so I can ease your pain, my love, my starshine.” 

Marco watched him, a morose smile on his lips. “Jeany,” he whispered. “I've broken my rule about getting involved. I've broken my rule about falling for someone. Don't make me break this one, too.” 

Jean let out a dry sob and took his hand, shaking his head. “I've never met someone who makes me feel like you do. Nobody in my life, nobody I've thought that I loved, has made me feel like I matter. And you do. So let me matter to you, Marco. Let me help!” 

Marco pulled Jean into his lap, stroking through his hair and shushing him as he cried, clinging to the other man's shirt. “I'll tell you in the morning, my moon.”

Jean nodded, sitting up a bit and wiping his face. He stood and carefully helped Marco up, holding him close and leading him to the bed. When they reached it, he curled up with him, waiting until Marco fell asleep to crawl out of bed and get into his painting kit. 

It was of Marco, of course. But without any hues of red. 

It was cold and devoid of light, everything Marco wasn't. 

He looked a lot like the real Marco, lying in bed. 

He looked like a corpse. 

When he was through, Jean sat there and stared at it, something dark and cold touching the edges of his heart. He didn't know what was wrong with Marco, but he knew it wasn't good. 

He didn't know what the morning would bring. 

He didn't know what would happen to them. 

He wasn't sure he wanted the sun to rise. 

He crawled back into bed, smiling as Marco wrapped around him. 

"Is it morning yet?" he whispered, not opening his eyes. 

"Not yet, baby. You've got about five more hours." 

He watched as Marco visibly relaxed at that, falling back asleep. 

Jean just traced constellations into the freckles on Marco's stomach. 

The sun would rise in five hours, and Jean was certain that his stars would fade.


	6. Small Hands

Marco woke up slowly, letting out a soft groan and pressing his nose into Jean's collarbone. He smiled a little as he felt lips on the top of his head, wriggling closer. “Morning,” he mumbled. 

“Starshine,” came Jean's reply. The weight behind the one word brought the events from the previous night rushing back to Marco. He sat bolt upright, his stomach clenching and the air leaving his lungs. Jean wrapped an arm around him and held him close, taking Marco's hand and pulling it up to his lips so he could kiss it and let Marco feel his steady breaths, giving him something to match his own breaths to. When he finally calmed down, Jean pulled back a bit and gave him a small smile. 

“It's okay,” he whispered to him. “I won't hate you for whatever this is. I promise.” 

Marco nodded, putting his forehead on his knees and sniffling. “Let's go out, first. To the park or something. I like the fresh air.”

Jean couldn't deny him that. He sighed and nodded, getting up and starting to get dressed. 

Marco watched him from the bed, the covers pulled up to just under his eyes. The longer he stayed in bed, the longer Jean would have happiness. 

Jean looked over at him and sighed. “Marco, come on. Out of bed,” he said. 

Marco shook his head, smiling as Jean walked over and flopped down on top of him, kissing each eyelid.

“Come on, dork. Get dressed.” 

Marco just wrapped his arms around Jean, nuzzling his neck and nipping at the spot he'd learned was sensitive. 

Jean whined and pushed him back with a great effort. “Please?” he whispered, smiling as Marco finally nodded. Jean rolled off of him and grabbed his red beanie, shoving it onto his head and going off to make them tea. 

Marco came down fifteen minutes later, sitting in Jean's lap and picking up his mug, taking a long sip. “Thanks,” he whispered, closing his eyes as Jean kissed the freckles on his neck. 

He sipped listlessly at his tea for a few minutes before passing the mug back to Jean, letting him finish it. “I'm ready now,” he whispered. 

Jean nodded and stood, taking Marco's hand and squeezing. It would be okay. He was overthinking this. Marco probably just exaggerating. Typical Marco. 

They walked in silence to the park, Marco immediately lying down in the tall grass once they arrived. Jean laid down beside him, stroking through his lover's hair when he put his head on his chest. 

Marco was silent for a very long time, so long that Jean was certain he'd fallen back asleep. And then he finally spoke, just whispering four words, so faintly that Jean had to strain to hear them. 

His heart skipped a beat. And then another. 

He stopped breathing. 

His blood felt icy. 

“No,” he wheezed, trying to turn his head to look at Marco. He couldn't. He was frozen in place. “No.” 

Marco just sniffled, pulling away from him. This was it. Jean would leave him now. He'd be alone again. He'd move on and forget all about Marco. 

Jean immediately pulled him back, holding tight to Marco and swallowing hard. He spoke again after several minutes of silence. 

“Can we go home?”

Marco nodded and slowly got to his feet, shivering against Jean's side as they walked back home. 

Jean went straight for the guest room, only letting go of Marco when he reached his paint brushes. 

He worked diligently for hours. He didn't stop to eat or drink. He needed to get this out. 

Marco sat in the window seat, watching him work. It was soothing to watch Jean paint, it allowed him to get lost in his artist for a while. 

Jean was entirely focused on his piece, brow furrowed and unshed tears in his eyes. When he finally finished, he took a few steps back to examine it. The focus of the piece was the massive black hole that took up the entire upper half of the canvas. But upon closer examination, there was a small cluster of stars being sucked into it. He sniffled once and then let out an anguished cry, grabbing his work and throwing it across the room as hard as he could, the sound of it slamming against the wall startling Marco from a nap. Jean stalked after it, hitting the wall with his painting over and over, tearing the canvas and ruining his work. “It's not fair!” he sobbed, the wood of the frame splintering in his hands. “You don't deserve this pain, Marco!” 

Marco blinked owlishly at him, hugging his knees. 

“Fuck!” he screamed, ignoring the cuts on his hands and the blood trailing sluggisly down his forearms. 

“Why you? You're so full of happiness and love! You don't deserve this! You...” he trailed off, the destroyed art falling from his hands. “You're so young,” he whispered, the fight draining from him. “Young people don't get pancreatic cancer. Young people don't get fucking stage three pancreatic cancer,” he sobbed. 

Marco got up and went to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and taking him to the bathroom. He gently washed the cuts the splinters had left on his hands and bandaged them up, pressing little kisses to Jean's skin as he cried. 

“Tr-treatments... you c-can try to f-fight, right?” he whispered. 

Marco nodded tentatively. “I opted not to,” he replied. “The chances that they'll work are slim and it'll just cause more pain.” 

Jean stared at him in horror. “You h-have to try,” he breathed. 

Marco started to shake his head, but caught the look on Jean's face. He looked like he was being gutted. 

“I'll try,” he agreed reluctantly. “For you, Jeany.” 

Jean sniffled and sank down to his knees. “Thank you. Thank you, starshine.” 

Marco stroked through his hair and sniffled. “Anything for you, my moon. You... you wormed your way into my heart, you fucking nerd. I've got to give this a shot. I have to try.” 

Jean clung to his waist, crying silently and praying that his starshine wouldn't dim.


	7. Nests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my Jeanbo, who sends me headcanons at two in the morning and stays up even later to watch In the Flesh with me. I've actually got a grasp on the majority of this story, thanks to their help. It wouldn't have happened without them and I can't thank them enough.

Marco stayed there with Jean for nearly an hour, letting him cry into his hip. The younger man had done his fair share of crying. He was numb to what was happening to his body at this point. He was dying. He knew that. He'd accepted that. Had things been a little different, he wouldn't have met Jean. He wouldn't have a tiny flicker of hope in him. He wouldn't be fighting. 

But he had. Even if Marco wasn't willing to admit the extent of his feelings for Jean, he knew that he had to fight now. They had something special and Marco didn't want to let that die with him. 

For now, though, he had to go to work. “Jean, my moon. I've got to head to the shop,” he whispered, his fingertips trailing down Jean's cheek until he reached his chin. He gently tipped his face up and gave him an encouraging smile. “It's alright. Come on, I'm going to treatments. We'll get through this. I have you now.” 

He beamed as Jean sniffled and nodded, standing up and kissing Marco's shoulder. “Can I come with you?” the artist asked.

Marco pursed his lips. “I'm sure Erwin won't mind too much. Levi comes in sometimes.” 

Jean smiled and grabbed his sketchbook and a few pencils before heading out to the car, Marco in tow. 

They drove in comfortable silence, Marco humming along with the radio until they arrived. He got out, smiling as Jean pressed up against his side. The man seemed afraid to break contact with Marco for more than a few seconds at a time. 

“Erwin,” he called as he walked into the shop. 

Erwin looked up from the book he was reading, waving. “Marco!” he said cheerfully. “Slow day today. I've already done all the paperwork. Take it easy, I'll let you know if I need help with anything.” 

Marco nodded, leading Jean off towards the back of the store. He flounced down onto a beanbag, pulling his artist with him. 

Jean laughed and snuggled up to him, watching with obvious adoration as Marco pulled a well-worn book from his bag and started reading. He watched for a few minutes before starting to sketch, drawing the way his lover read. It was beautiful to watch, really. Marco didn't wear a mask when he read. His emotions and thoughts flitted freely across his features. It was part of why Jean loved to draw him. 

One of them would occasionally lose focus and get distracted by the other. It was during one of these moments, where Marco had shifted to lazy kiss Jean's neck as he sketched, that he was startled by a disgusted scoff coming from nearby. Both men blinked and looked up to see another man glaring at them in disgust. “Filth,” he spat, lip curling. 

Jean immediately started to stiffen, though Marco put a placating hand on his shoulder. 

“I thought this was a family establishment,” the man continued. “If you have any sense, you'll leave now before I go get the manager.” 

Marco tutted and ran a hand through Jean's hair, looking back to his book. 

The man looked enraged. “Fucking faggots,” he hissed. 

Jean snarled and tried to stand, but was stopped again by Marco, who was smiling. 

The man stalked off, returning a few minutes later with Erwin in tow. “Look at this,” he hissed. “These fucking faggots flaunting their sins to the public. There are children that come in here. They need to be removed from the premises immediately. 

Erwin just raised an eyebrow and put a solid hand on the man's shoulder. “I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir,” he said coolly. 

He batted Erwin's hand away. “I'm not the one that should be leaving!” he shouted. “I shouldn't be kicked out! They should!” 

Erwin just gave him a gentle push towards the door. “Why on earth would I kick my co-owner out of his own shop?” he asked with a pleasant smile. 

The man turned, staring at Marco and spluttering incoherently. Marco just beamed at him, waving. “Don't come back,” he said cheerfully, pressing up against Jean again. 

***

The next day found them in the hospital, preparing for Marco's first round of chemo. Jean was all smiles, doing his best to keep a sunny disposition and encourage Marco.  
Marco looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. He looked like he'd already given up. It was hard for Jean to keep up the happy act when Marco looked like that.

He was reminded briefly of how stars, when they died, expanded and demolished everything that was within a certain radius of them. Jean was a planet trapped in a dying star's path. He was surprisingly alright with this. 

They were moved to a private room, where Marco was set up to an IV. Jean gave him a comforting smile. “It'll be alright,” he promised. “I'm here. I've got you.” 

Marco gave him a small smile and rubbed his knuckles, staring blankly ahead. 

“Sweetheart?” Jean whispered, waiting for Marco to turn to him. 

“I know you're not very optimistic about this,” he murmured. “But there's a chance. There's a chance and that's what matters, love. If you have hope, you can beat this.” 

“Jean,” Marco replied, sounding exhausted and years older than he really was. “If I let myself hope, it'll only hurt that much more when they say I'm still going to die.” He looked away. “You're going to have to hope enough for the both of us right now.” 

Jean nodded, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I will,” he promised. “I will, Marco. Because I lov-” 

“No.” The word was so sharp and so fierce it was hard to believe it had come from Marco. 

“No, Jean. Don't say that to me. Think it if you must. But don't tell me.” 

Jean swallowed and nodded, pulling away from Marco. 

Marco glanced over at him. “Don't look so glum,” he mumbled. “I'm dying, Jeany. If you tell me that, it's only going to make my death that much harder on both of us.” 

Jean nodded silently. He understood, of course. But that didn't mean he had to agree. 

He'd slip up eventually. And maybe Marco would hate him for it, but Jean wasn't ashamed. He loved Marco, he was sure of that. 

“Starshine, I just want you to know while you're alive that you're loved,” he whispered in return. 

Marco cringed, looking away. “Don't,” he whispered. “I've accepted this. I was okay with it all. And then you had to come along and charm me, you idiot.” 

Jean grinned at that. “Yeah, but I'm your idiot,” he whispered, laughing as Marco smacked his arm. 

His smiled faded. “Thank you for letting me in, starshine. Because even if this doesn't work out in our favor, you've given me a lifetime of happiness just by sharing your life with me.” 

Marco smacked his arm again, sniffling. “Shut up, you sap,” he whispered, moving into Jean's chair and curling up in his lap. They drifted off like that together a few minutes later.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even a little bit sorry.


End file.
